


Sing A Song For Believing

by catstrophysics



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: 3am babeyyy, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt singing, Humming, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Jaskier | Dandelion Being Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Sings, M/M, Music, My First Work in This Fandom, One Shot, This is really short I wrote it in one sitting, god this is a mess okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: Geralt doesn'thum. ...does he?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 169





	Sing A Song For Believing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom, and... I wrote this last night with the half a braincell I presently possess. Enjoy!

It started as humming, quiet enough it could have been the wind in the trees. Jaskier didn’t look up, absently running his fingers over the familiar strings of his lute, mouthing the words to his newest song, ignoring the sound with the practiced ease of a musician who worked in loud environments far too often. 

The humming persisted, growing louder until he had to turn and discern the source, because it wasn’t Geralt, because the witcher—he would never hum. _Would he?_ Jaskier shook his head, clearing away the thought like dandelion fluff in the wind. _No._

Behind him, Geralt hunched over the fire pit, arranging birch fluff under a pyramid of tinder, humming the tune Jaskier had been plucking out minutes before with shocking faith to the original. His voice growled over the low notes and faltered on the high, pausing briefly to hunt for the next pitch with the keen accuracy he hunted everything, but he was humming Jaskier’s song. A waterfall of hair tumbled over one shoulder, swinging dangerously close to the pile of woodchips between his knees, unrestrained by the pins and ties he usually kept it bound in around camp. As Jaskier watched, he pulled a short knife from his waistband and chipped away at a block of stone, sparks flying from the tip and into the nest of kindling as the tune carried on.

It was entrancing in all the wrong ways, a melodic spell set in a minor key, and he failed to notice Geralt’s eyes on him until the witcher was face-to-face with him, gold eyes searching his features. 

“...the next bit. I don’t know how it goes.” He touched Jaskier’s lute lightly. “Will you,” he paused, “will you play it for me?” 

Jaskier stood frozen in place, one hand loosely around the neck of his lute and eyes watchful over Geralt’s. “The… the whole song, then?” Geralt nodded solemnly, and folded himself smoothly down onto the leaves at Jaskier’s feet, gazing up at him expectantly. 

He cleared his throat, set his fingers to strum, but seeing the witcher settled at his feet, eyes intent on his hands unnerved him in the most delicious way, a flowering warmth in the centre of his chest, and it occurred to him—

“I didn’t know you actually listened to my singing. Thought it _annoyed_ you, or something.” He slowly lowered his hands from the lute, relaxing forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Hmm?” 

“Hmm,” Geralt replied. “Never said that. You’ve got quite a nice voice, bard.” 

Jaskier allowed himself a moment to gape, before muttering, “alright, then,” and setting about his music.

He’d never watched Geralt’s face as he played before, never allowed himself to, knowing the indifference that he’d surely find behind his eyes would hurt all the more than any criticism he’d ever received. Gods, had he been wrong to look away. 

Geralt’s eyes had slid shut in just the first few bars, the worry lines perpetually creasing his forehead smoothed out into a tan expanse and the corners of his mouth turning up in the tiniest hint of a smile. He was beautiful in the setting sun, and Jaskier allowed himself to study the man’s features for the first time in a long while. 

He danced his way through the verses, and by the time the song drew to a close with his customary chord progression, it looked as though Geralt was asleep sitting up. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, lips barely moving. Jaskier thought he must have imagined it. 

“What?”

“I said,” Geralt murmured again, voice growing louder and eyes flickering open, “beautiful. You’re… beautiful, Jaskier.” 

“You mean my singing, right? Because, as your resident bard, I really do pride myself on my voi—” 

“No, I don’t.” Geralt raised his eyebrows, considering Jaskier on the stump before him. “Although your voice is beautiful as well.” 

Then there was a hand around his back, broad and warm, and one under his knees, and he was scooped up into the arms of the witcher, clutching his lute to his chest as Geralt straightened up. “Come on, then,” he said, pulling Jaskier tighter to his chest, “teach me the words.” 

Jaskier barely heard a word he said, senses focused fully on the warm scent of leather and copper—of _Geralt_ —surrounding him. He breathed in, too committed to memorizing every second of being held like this to answer until they were wherever Geralt was taking him. 

They were headed to Geralt’s tent, apparently, as the man ducked through the opening and set Jaskier down on the bed, as delicately as if he were a porcelain doll. 

Jaskier had never been in Geralt’s tent for any appreciable amount of time before, drifting in for a few tense, uncomfortable seconds on a few occasions before wandering back to his own. It was homey in the same way Geralt was, simple and warm and put-together. The whole space smelled of leather, the same as the witcher did, and he caught himself taking a few deep breaths as he rearranged on the bed, settling his lute gently across his lap. 

Geralt curled himself onto a makeshift chair crafted out of a few empty supply crates lashed together with some twine and regarded Jaskier with interest. “Lyrics, please,” he asked, the faintest tinge of impatience coloring his voice. 

“Oh, come on, Geralt,” Jaskier said, the playful lilt of his voice in full force, “you don’t think I’d just _give_ away my craft for nothing? You’ve got to pay me first.” He jokingly held out a hand for a tip. 

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Pay you? I’ve saved your arse more times than I can count, and we have no money.” 

“Something else, then,” Jaskier demanded haughtily. “Or no song for you.” 

“Fuck. Fine.” 

And then Geralt’s hand was on his, pulling him upright and flush with his chest. “This payment enough?” he asked, before leaning down and pressing a hesitant kiss to Jaskier’s lips. 

Jaskier nodded breathlessly, and the full lion’s force of the witcher descended upon him, his hands everywhere and nowhere all at once, stealing the thoughts from his head and the air from his lungs. 

All the thoughts, except one. _This is going to make_ such _a good song._

“That was _certainly_ payment enough, and, er, how would you feel about daily singing lessons? With proper payment, of course.” 

Geralt only grinned, the cautious motion spreading across his face, and pressed a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please leave kudos and/or comments if you liked this, they're fantastic, really. You can find me on Tumblr [here](https://catstrophysics.tumblr.com/), come say hi if you like! Thanks for reading! If this gets any/some interest (and comments preferably), I'll write a dance chapter to tack on :)


End file.
